


No Forgiveness in the Aftermath

by otppurefuckingmagic



Category: Shadowhunters (TV), The Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Angst, Basically A Fic Rorschach Test, Explicit Sexual Content, Ficlet, Grief/Mourning, I Blame Jon Bellion, Like REALLY vague, M/M, Minor Character Death, Not A Happy Ending, Post-Break Up, Self-Hatred, Unreliable Narrator, Unresolved, Vague, What Have I Done, not a cheating fic, so many regrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-10 02:50:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11118351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/otppurefuckingmagic/pseuds/otppurefuckingmagic
Summary: Alec walked away from them a year ago. Magnus called him again four months ago. Since then, Alec can't stay away.But he knows he should.





	No Forgiveness in the Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

  * For [magicandarchery](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicandarchery/gifts), [j__writes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/j__writes/gifts), [SarcasticLightwood (Wisenights)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wisenights/gifts), [Darque](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darque/gifts).



> soooooo. this just flew out of my fingertips yesterday and i wasn't going to publish it at all. but, well. here we are.
> 
> the tags pretty much say it all.

Alec knows he shouldn’t be doing this.

He should have Magnus’ number blocked. He should hire his own warlock to ward him from any messages, or, better yet, to wipe Magnus completely from his memory.

But the need to be touched by Magnus sits low in his belly, a hunger that can never be fully sated. He hates it. He hates Magnus for it. He hates himself even more.

None of that stops him from leaving the Institute, though, lies slipping effortlessly past his lips when Izzy asks where he’s going. None of that keeps him from glamouring himself for the subway, counting down the number of stops before he gets to Brooklyn, or mounting the steps to Magnus’ building two at a time, or pressing the button for the penthouse floor once, twice, then again because this elevator never moves fast enough for him. He holds no guilt, no remorse, when he pushes Magnus’ front door open without a knock, as if this is his home—even though another man claimed that right after him.

All he knows as he strips down, leaving a trail of clothes in his wake, is that he’ll continue to come here as long as Magnus continues to call.

Magnus doesn’t say anything when Alec enters the bedroom. He’s hard, ready, no shame in his eyes or questions on his lips when Alec straddles his thighs then drapes over him, claiming Magnus’ mouth in a bruising kiss. There’s no negotiation of roles or positions anymore, no coarse, bitter demands like there was before. No anger. No love. No emotion at all.

Just _this_.

Magnus pushes inside him and Alec gasps, digging his fingernails into Magnus’ chest. He arches up and throws his head back, clamping his eyes shut and pushing all thought away. He sets a frantic, harsh pace—never slow, _never_ —and gives in to what his body needs, drowning in the slide of skin against skin. He licks his lips and tastes the saltiness of sweat intermingling with the smoky, biting remnants of scotch from Magnus’ mouth. He chases the low, primal heat building between his hips instead of pursuing the singeing reality of just how much Magnus had to drink before picking up the phone again.

Magnus’ hand circles around him and swear words trip out of his throat and over his tongue before he can bite down hard enough to stop them. He shouldn’t say anything at all because each breathless plea implies desire and passion and need and there’s none of that here. Not since he walked away over a year ago, not in the four months since Magnus called him again, and definitely not now.

He scratches his nails down Magnus’ chest and focuses on _taking_. On sensation and instinct and _how_ not _who_. His heart slams against his ribcage and his lungs ache, and Magnus’ fever-hot skin against his cock makes the demand for release burn brighter, spreading and overtaking every conscious thought.

Only under the haze of that frenzied, heady rush does he dare to open his eyes. His skin prickles and heart skitters at the hint of gold hidden by thick black lashes, completely disappearing under kohl-smudged lids that widen, flick, then shutter. Magnus drives into him deeper, harsher, his chest expanding and retracting under Alec’s fingertips with desperate gasps for air and Alec tries to forget again, he _tries_.

Another man in this bed.

Magnus’ hands on someone else.

He flattens his palms on Magnus’ chest, the shift of muscle over bone and the warmth of life dragging him under. Magnus was the first, but he can’t be the last. There will have to be others, he has to let go. But not now. Not yet.

He captures Magnus’ lips and meets each thrust, each twist of Magnus’ hand, each demand for a response, with silence. But there’s no holding back, no desire for escape, and Magnus knows, he _knows_ , what Alec needs even if Alec won’t give voice to it. He shudders, forces a cry back, as he surges over Magnus’ hand and Magnus shivers beneath him, drawn out, languid, and spent.

Alec knows by now that it’s best not to linger.

There’s no forgiveness in the aftermath. No hope.

He backtracks through the loft without a word, picking up each discarded item until he’s armored again, less vulnerable in worn cotton than skin that is reddened now and will be bruised tomorrow.

He pales at the sight of a leather jacket hanging from a hook by the door, his transgressions muted by release and lust, but no less severe.

He’s at the door when the patter of bare footfalls stops him cold. The hairs at the back of his neck stand on end.

“He died six months ago, Alexander,” Magnus says. A whisper of breath that slashes through him like a knife. “When are you going to forgive yourself?”

Magnus leans against the bedroom door, his arms folded across his bare chest, a pair of sleep pants sitting low on his waist that don’t belong to either him or Alec.

Alec grinds his teeth together until all he feels is pain, and this, _this_ , is what he deserves.

“Never.”

**Author's Note:**

> yes, there is a backstory to this, but i don't think i'm emotionally capable of writing it.
> 
> let the screaming commence here, on tumblr @otppurefuckingmagic, or twitter @authorsamcauley (if i use the hashtag #forgiveness does that make any of this better?) ♡ xx


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